Chapter One

Being popular in college isn’t at all like being popular in high school, but for whatever good it does him Noah Schneider is popular. Which is to say he has a lot of friends, he’s well liked by his peers and the faculty, and he gets invited to lots and lots of parties. Some of those parties are on-campus and some of them are not, but he goes to more than he turns down, even if sometimes they’re on a Tuesday night and he’s got that Wednesday Ethics in Business class at 8am that he regrets signing up for with every fiber of his being. Being popular means showing up to support your friends, or your friends’ friends, and part of being on a team means sometimes you’ve got to make an appearance even if you’re not feeling like it.

Noah usually feels like it. Parties are one of the things he’s really enjoyed since spreading his wings and leaving the nest, to move away to Raleigh, NC to attend NCSU. Having the ability to just hang out with his friends on a whim, drink cheap beer and play stupid drinking games, has been a real bright spot in his college experience. Long gone are the days in senior year of high school back in Small Town, USA where he’d had nothing but evenings in the back of someone’s pick up truck, drinking wine coolers someone smuggled from their mom’s basement fridge, and driving around from park to park trying not to get caught by the after hours patrols.

This party, however, is a lot different from what he’s used to. It’s leagues calmer and quieter than the parties he’s usually used to attending that are thrown by his teammates or their fraternity brothers. The last party he’d gone to at a frat house had ended with a lawn chair being thrown through a window and the cops showing up at 2:30 in the morning, so maybe being different from that is not exactly a bad thing. This party is in an apartment complex he hasn’t been to before, and the apartment’s walls are decorated with thin crimson tapestries. There are piles of incense ash dusting most of the tabletops. The music playing is a folksy band he vaguely recognizes as being indie-popular; if his dorm-mate, Nathan, was here–like he promised he would be–then maybe Noah could actually ask someone he knows who the artist is.

He could also ask someone he doesn’t know, but the prospect is intimidating at best. The scattered groups of people drinking cheap beer and speaking too softly for a party are paying him no attention. They also aren’t purposely excluding him, he knows. He’s simply an undeniable stranger in their midst, leaning against the wall with his own cheap beer, and apparently that means being left to his own devices. As someone who is usually pretty outgoing and friendly, it’s a little weird to let the atmosphere of this place get to him and make him a wallflower. He blames it on Nathan, who has abandoned him in his time of need and is probably snoring into his arm at his desk.

One thing is for sure–it’s certainly much less…flamboyant than Noah had assumed it would be, for a party comprised entirely of gay kids. Or queer people. LGBT? He’s not sure the correct terminology or acronym to use, but he’s sure he’s close. Originally when Nathan had invited him, Noah had a couple of preconceived ideas about what a gay house party might be like, and maybe it was a little naive of him to assume it was going to be like a private dance club with lights and thumping beats and people wearing mesh. Well, okay, maybe some parties are like that, but not this one. It’s really just…people hanging out.

The rainbow flag draped over the door to the back porch draws his eye for the fourth time that night. It’s very colorful. It’s hard not to look at with its vibrancy, and Noah considers each hued band as he brings his beer to his lips. Everyone here is gay.

“Everyone here but me,” he mumbles absently, finishing off his drink. And maybe that’s not true–maybe someone else brought their straight friends along with them, but it’s not like he’s making friends enough to find out.

He likes to think he’s pretty open-minded about these kinds of things, being the son of a professor and all. It sort of comes with the territory, and it makes him more than just a Sports Guy despite the mornings he spends on the court and the jersey currently baring his pale arms to the room. Maybe he’s not dressed for the occasion, but it’s the kind of thing he wears pretty frequently, so at least he’s comfortable in his own skin. Noah is the kind of person who can talk to anybody and feel comfortable doing so, and if he can’t, then it’s a chance to get out of his comfort zone and learn about different perspectives and whatnot. Maybe dazzle some folks with his personal records, while he’s at it. There’s never a bad time to work that into casual conversation, as far as he’s concerned.

Right. No more being a wallflower. Time to be the life of the party. Or, at least, have some life at this party. No more of this zombie routine.

With this in mind, he quiets the discomfort in his stomach with the achievable goal of ‘more beer’ and heads into the kitchen. There’s a red communal cooler in the floor for those who didn’t BYOB–it’s full of the obviously less-popular brews left over from the ghosts of parties past, and Noah makes a mental note to slip the bubbly blonde host with the septum piercing a ten for being so generous. Sometimes he does have the wherewithal to bring his own beer to a party, especially if there’s something he’s really looking forward to drinking, but tonight wasn’t destined to be one of those nights. So he’s grateful for being allowed to drink the cheap beer rejects in the cooler (beggars can’t be choosers, after all), but said cooler is currently under happenstantial guard by a group chatting around it.

“Excuse me,” Noah says, a bit louder than he intends, and their talk hushes instantly as four pairs of eyes turn up at him.

Brown, brown, brown, blue. Wow, so blue. He’s never seen eyes that blue before.

Instantly, Noah forgets himself in the scrutiny of the man on his right. He feels like he’s just been involuntarily snatched up for the annual campus Polar Plunge and given no time before he was submerged into icy waters. The face that stares back at him is ever-so-slightly tanned, with a dusting of freckles, and shaped like a heart. He has soft blond hair, just a hint of stubble, and what Noah can only describe as boy-band lips. This guy is–he’s–God, he can get any girl he wants!

Only–actually–he might not…want any girl? Now that Noah remembers where he is, he thinks that’s such a shame. This guy would make one hell of a wingman.

Snapping his attention back to the cooler, he speaks before too much time slips by and things become more awkward than they need to be. “Just getting another beer. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No problem,” chirps a girl with short red hair and thick tattooed arms, resting her hips back against the counter. “Sorry we’re Bogarting it.”

“No worries.” Noah crouches down to access the treasure chest in question, and no sooner is he fishing for beer in the melting ice like some sort of college-themed crane game than another one of them pipes up.

“You look familiar. Are you on our basketball team?”

Noah looks up at a lanky, mousy fellow with an angular jaw and tugs at his jersey with a showcasing pinch. “I am. This is me.”

“Cool, man. That’s neat.”

“Is it?” Noah questions with a laugh.

Once he’s standing again, he notices immediately that he’s only got a few inches on his admittedly-tall conversation partner. Of course, that could just be something he notices because he’s too busy pitting everyone else’s appearances against the much shorter specimen to his right…who still hasn’t said a word. Actually, he knows a lot of girls would say that shortness in a guy is a turn-off, but there’s something about the fact that he can see the top of blue eyes’ head that he finds instantly endearing. With how conventionally attractive this guy is, his personality has gotta be complete trash, right? That’s the only way the universe would even out. Hopefully he opens his mouth soon and Noah can be completely vindicated.

“Yeah,” mousy claims, snapping Noah’s train of thought. “I follow the games sometimes. You’re one of the good ones.”

And Noah has several thoughts all at once:

Those are my teammates you’re dismissing—we’re all ‘the good ones’.

Follow the games ‘sometimes’? What does that mean?

Probably hitting on me. Ugh.

Instead of voicing any of these thoughts, Noah swallows and uses the bottle opener sitting on the nearby counter to crack open his beer. He nods at the man and says, “Well, that’s nice of you to say.”

“What’s on your hat?” asks the redhead, pointing, and Noah, more than happy to have the subject changed so abruptly, pulls off his cap enthusiastically.

“Limited edition John Deere design,” he announces, turning it by the bill. He’s intending to flip it around so they can see it while he’s holding it–what? Like they haven’t already seen it–but he’s overambitious with too many beers already in him and his tipsy fingers fumble. The hat falls to the kitchen tile with a light thud and Noah watches it go with a sinking feeling, like he’s just done something mildly embarrassing in front of these people he’s trying to talk to.

The feeling is short-lived, because his pity party is interrupted by the offensively-handsome one swiftly stooping to pick it up. He offers it back to Noah with an averted gaze and tight shoulders, and…That’s kind of hard to ignore. The others in the group are already sidetracked by something else, chatting about who in their family lives on a farm and who’s going to be going home for break, but Noah tunes them all out. His entire attention is focused on this guy, who is doing his very best not to look at him.

“Thanks.” Noah reaches for the hat and doesn’t miss the way the guy withdraws, just a hair.

Like a flinch.

Noah feels unease settle in his stomach like a rock. Carefully, his focus darting between his hat and the stranger’s shyness, Noah takes his prized possession back with a gentle tug and replaces it on his head. It feels heavier than it had before.

“Hey,” he says gently, quiet enough so as to not draw the attention of the group. Blue eyes turn to him finally, but it’s a fleeting sort of look–one that could fly away at any second, so Noah tries to cage it. “I know I’m tall. I don’t bite, though.”

“Sorry,” the blond mutters, then busies his mouth with his drink until it’s tilted all the way back and entirely gone. His Adam’s apple bobs as he drinks–and the look of it is almost pornographic. Jesus. He's never seen anyone drink anything like that before. He wonders if it's alluring to other men. Well, to gay men. Which Noah is not.

His mouth feels dry.

“I’m Noah,” he says. He feels like the thing to do here is to extend an olive branch of sorts. It’s perfectly fine if this guy doesn’t want to talk, but Noah isn’t going to simply ignore the fact that someone is intimidated or scared by him at a party. That’s not who Noah is and that’s not the kind of impression he wants to leave on someone–on anyone. He’s not here to ruin anyone’s good time, and he certainly doesn’t want to be responsible for keeping anyone looking over their shoulders all evening.

The stranger considers him for a quiet moment, fingers tight on his now-empty bottle.

“Ellery,” he eventually responds in kind, and Noah’s throat is suddenly aching for alcohol.

“You need a fresh one?” he asks, motioning to the cooler, but Ellery shakes his head and points limply over his shoulder.

“I’ve got—mine’s in the fridge.”

“Sure. Too good for the watering hole, I see.”

It’s supposed to be a joke. Judging by the way Ellery squints up at him, though, it doesn’t land, and only when Noah huffs a nervous chuckle does Ellery return a fragile, humored smirk.

“Be right back.”

“Yep.”

What is wrong with you? Noah mentally slaps himself on the forehead, blinking hard and frowning into his beer. That wasn’t even a good joke. You definitely shouldn’t tease people that you don’t know–especially people who are already wary of you. He’s going to think he’s justified in his opinion if you don’t ease up and relax.

Before Noah truly has a chance to collect himself, Ellery returns with a fresh bottle and stands idly by. He notices when Ellery glances at his arms, and pride bursts through his chest. And why shouldn’t he? He works very hard for those muscles. Ellery probably wishes he had arms like that underneath that baggy hoodie of his.

“So,” Ellery starts quietly, and Noah has to lean in to hear him better, making the guy wince again at the closeness.

Damn it all. Does Noah look like a bad person? Of course he doesn’t. He’s wearing a university jersey, for God’s sake. They go to the same school. They might have even seen each other in the quad in passing and never known it.

“You, uhh… wanna get drunk together?” Ellery asks out of left field, and Noah’s mind goes immediately blank. For a second there he completely forgets that getting drunk is the entire reason he’d taken Nathan up on the invitation to come here to begin with. The fact that Nathan is a no-show shouldn’t mean he can’t still enjoy himself.

It’s a perfectly innocent question on its own, and Noah considers it for a moment. He wonders if saying ‘yes’ entails anything specifically. Surely Ellery’s not trying to get Noah drunk to try anything, or whatever, right? They’ve only just met, for one. For two, Noah knows enough gay men to know they don’t, like, hunt straight guys and get them liquored up and convince them to mess around. …Right?

Well, not like it matters anyway. Even drunk, Noah doesn’t think he’d be tricked by a pretty face that easily.

“Yeah.” With a hopefully-friendly smile, he taps his drink against Ellery’s, and his new inebriation buddy blinks in surprise. “Let’s go sit on the couch.”

Time on the couch with a friend passes much quicker, and better, than time alone spent hugging the wall and wishing for Nathan to save him. They drink a couple of beers, and Noah does his best to out Undiscovered Hanes Model Ellery as the douchebag he undoubtedly must be to be gifted with those good looks. Actually, all of Noah’s efforts have been in vain and have come up bearing exactly zero fruits. It turns out Ellery is an only child, from a small town out east, same as Noah. He likes country music (somehow) and has a quick tongue that has left Noah wheezing with laughter more than once so far.

He’s a good guy, to Noah’s immense disappointment. A looker and undeniably kind.

The more Ellery speaks, the more relaxed and amicable he becomes, and now he even has a mind to humor Noah and talk sports despite having made it clear that he’s not really into that sort of thing anymore.

“What did you play, then?” Noah inquires, hunching forward, elbows on his knees and stroking his chin with a curious motion.

“Soccer,” Ellery answers easily, crossing his legs and smirking at his beer as he reminisces. “I wasn’t very good, but I enjoyed it.”

“Ever still play for fun?”

“Sometimes. If I see a ball, I’ll kick it.”

“Scary. Remind me not to undress around you,” Noah laughs, pressing his bottle to his lips.

Ellery snorts, side-eyeing him through a haze of drink. “Why would I ever need to remind you of that?”

Noah sputters, hopefully not visible enough to register that he’d spit his sip back into the bottle. A pressure builds in his head and pairs with an unpleasant burn on his face as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, tripping to recover from the foul. “It was—I was joking! Balls, right? And you wouldn’t be able to see a dude’s unless—”

“Calm down,” Ellery laughs, rapping his fingers on his rubber sole. “You’re quick to rile. I was joking right back.”

Oh. Right.

“Just making sure.” Brow furrowed, Noah takes the sourness of his own face and the nervousness in his palms as an indicator that he needs nicotine. The pack of smokes in his front pocket feels heavy with promise, and he sets his beer down on the coffee table and motions to the rainbow flag over the back porch. “You smoke?”

Ellery gawks at him. Gives him a slow once-over. “You do? You’re an athlete.”

“Only when I drink. It’s like a craving I get when I’m tipsy. Wanna join me?”

Noah will do it alone—he won’t have any problem with that. And that’s why the tinge of excitement in his chest when Ellery pulls a pseudo-frown and nods is so bizarre.

It’s having company, he decides. Company is always nice.